It’s being played in a stadium half-filled with fans and the rest bacteria, but at least it’s slightly less sloppy than the game on Monday night.

The half flew by, in part because the Panthers killed more than half the first quarter with their opening drive, a 15-play touchdown plod that ended with a Cam Newton pass to an uncovered Greg Olsen. If only the Bucs were more generous with those free cokes, they might’ve known to cover him.

The Bucs responded with a field goal drive. It’s worth noting that Mike Glennon is a decent quarterback if you’re willing to score 15 points a game all on field goals. DeAngelo Williams found the end zone for the first time this season, then the Bucs added – you guessed it – another field goal to put it at 14-6 at half.

INT. SUB-BASEMENT 500 FEET BENEATH THE SURFACE OF THE EARTH – TWO HOURS TO GAME TIME

The room resembles the Patriots locker room, but seems…darker….more sinister. Danny Amendola applies an ace bandage to his wrist. Rob Gronkowski plays with an unlaced shoe. Tom Brady composes a symphony in urdu, well aware that his complete inability to speak urdu renders the symphony incomprehensible gibberish.

The temperature in the room drops 10 degrees in an instant, and the players begin to shiver slightly. Yet nobody seems alarmed.

/BLAST DOOR SLOWLY SWINGS OPEN

With no fanfare or grand entrance, in walks Bill Belichick, flipping through some papers. Belichick looks up at the players, who gather in front of him and stand at military attention.

BELICHICK: Listen up, assholes. I got featured in a dozen stories on ESPN this week. A dozen. Twelve.

Belichick stares at Chris Jones, who averts his gaze, barely holding back tears.

BELICHICK: Anybody know why?

Silence.

BELICHICK: Because you lost. You lost, to the FUCKING JETS!!

Belichick kicks Josh McDaniels, who scampers off whimpering like a wounded puppy.

BELICHICK: A bunch of inbred alpaca taints coached by a syphilitic fetishist with a lap band! Do you worthless fucking buffoons have any idea what that means? It means we have to delay the AFC East winning certificate ceremony for two more weeks. Two precious weeks that could be spent nailing bored housewives while their husbands, tied to a chair, are forced to watch. That’s gone now. And do you know what’s going to happen if it gets delayed for another week?

GRONK: We don’t wanna know?

BELICHICK: That’s right, Rob.

Gronk fist pumps at the warmest sign of approval Belichick can give.

BELICHICK: Now, to make sure there’s no more fuckups. I need you all to recite this. Memorize it.

Belichick hands out sheets of paper outlining media do’s and don’ts. There are no do’s.

PLAYERS: (in unison) I have no comment. I believe our game plan was sound and we executed slash were unable to execute. We trust coach Belichick to make the right calls. I don’t want to dwell on this win slash loss, and am just looking forward to next week’s game against insert inferior team here.

BELICHICK: Well, at least you morons can do something right.

Tom Brady puts on a sombrero and blasts Taylor Swift music.

BELICHICK: Any questions?

KENBRELL THOMPKINS: But coach, this is just about what to say to the media. Shouldn’t we be getting prepared to play the Dolphins?

Almost instantly, Belichick backhands Thompkins across the face.

BELICHICK: The Dolphins? Are you fucking retarded? I could re-sign Jesus boy, start him at QB and STILL put up 40 on the Dolphins.

Belichick turns and gazes out over his legions.

BELICHICK: Any non-idiotic questions?

Amendola looks around the room, noticing the vacant, stepford expressions of the other players.

DANNY AMENDOLA: (incredulous) Really? Nobody? Alright.

Amendola raises hand, breaks hip, is out 8-10 weeks.

LOGAN RYAN: Yeah, I’ve got one.

Belichick rolls his eyes.

LOGAN RYAN: Why aren’t we allowed to show any emotion, on or off the field? I had a pick six against a division rival, and I was excited. But everybody got mad.

JULIAN EDELMAN: What is….ex-ci-ted?

BELICHICK: It’s an emotion. They’re for losers. I used to have them, but a few bucks and a back alley witch doctor visit and BAM. Three Superbowls.

GRONK: I have a question.

BELICHICK: (sighing) What, Rob?

GRONK: I’m bored.

BELICHICK: That’s not a question.

GRONK: Can I go to Senor Sullivans now? Three dollar vodka redbulls after 12.

BELICHICK: How many goddamn times do I have to tell you this, Rob? You can’t drink on gameday.

GRONK: (whining) But I wanna smash some chiiiiiicks.

BELICHICK: Okay, that’s it. Go study your playbook.

GRONLK: But-

BELICHICK: Right now, young man.

Gronk heads for his locker.

GRONK: (under his breath) I bet Rex Ryan’s tight ends get to go to Senor Sullivans.

BELICHICK: What was that?

GRONK: Nothing.

BELICHICK: Good. Hands in men.

The Patriots hesitantly put their hands in. Belichick proceeds to whip each player on the arm with a riding crop.

BELICHICK: Now get out there, and don’t fucking embarrass me this time.

Am I the only one that has one-team amnesia every time I think of division standings? I sat for a minute or two going: “ok, the Saints are 5-1, Panthers are 4-3, Bucs are 0-fer….wait, what is the other team in the NFC South?” It took longer than it should have to remember the Falcons exist